Not An Advantage
by Lyrics Amidala
Summary: After the death of his wife, Mycroft locks himself in his room. What happened to the elder Holmes that made him so unfeeling, and just how did Sherlock become a consulting detective. Excerpt:"Are you going to stay in your room for the rest of your life?" "Oh, do be serious Sherlock," Mycroft scoffed. "That would result in a very short life, wouldn't it?"


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Dammit, how many times do I have to say that? So, I've been thinking about Mycroft lately, what with the fact that I'm starved for Sherlock, seeing as season 3 still isn't out yet *****growls*****. So anyway, I've given Mycroft a daughter, yes? But what happened to the poor girl's mother, and has that affected Mycroft in any way? And when exactly did Sherlock start solving cases? All these questions will be answered within here, my lovelies! Please review, it gives me happiness. **

Some part in Sherlock's head knew that this would have happened eventually. There was no way that this whole affair couldn't have ended in disaster. He just wished that he wasn't responsible for it, however indirectly. But now, he had other things on his mind. Mainly, the four year old staring blankly at the wall, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, as of she was just barely holding it together. Sherlock sat down beside the girl, and looked at the wall that so entranced her.

"What do you see?" He asked quietly. He didn't expect a response. She hadn't talked ever since the alley, when he had phoned Mycroft, and brought her home. So he was at least a little surprised when the little girl wrote her answer on a notepad. _I see Mummy. And red everywhere. _That was morbid. He wasn't sure whether to get her to a psychiatrist or not.

"OK, we need to get you to bed," Sherlock said. He carefully placed his arms on the girl, not sure how she would react to being touched. He laid her down on the bed, before pulling the quilt over her head and tucking her in. She snuggled against the blankets before closing her eyes and drifting off. Sherlock got up quietly and made his way down the hall to Mycroft's room.

"She's asleep," he said quietly, twisting the doorknob to open the door. The doorknob wouldn't turn. "Mycroft, your doorknob's broken."

"It isn't broken," Mycroft said. Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

"Open the door!" He ordered his older brother. He can practically hear Mycroft shake his head.

"How would the word no sound to you, little brother?" Mycroft said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Why is the door locked?" He asked.

"Because I don't feel like seeing anyone right now," Mycroft answered.

"Mycroft, now you're being ridiculous," Sherlock sighed. "Open the damn door."

"Again, no." Sherlock heaved another sigh.

"Mycroft, about what happened…." He began, uncertain.

"I'm not talking about it!" Mycroft snapped. "And you would do well not to mention it Sherlock!"

"I'm not a child anymore Mycroft," Sherlock said with forced patience. "You cannot simply tell me what to do." There was a derisive laugh from the other side of the door.

"I'm done talking to you Sherlock."

-MH-

Mycroft didn't know how long it had been since he had been locked in his room, sitting with his back against the door. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, and he had been staring at the wall for quite a while now.

"Mycroft, it's been three hours," Sherlock sighed. "Come out of you room."

"I've already given you my answer, little brother," Mycroft said, turning his head towards the door.

"Mycroft, you're being childish," Sherlock said. "Are you going to stay in your room for the rest of your life?"

"Oh, _do_ be serious Sherlock," Mycroft scoffed. "That would result in a very short life, wouldn't it?"

"Because _that _would be a tragedy, obviously," Sherlock muttered.

"I _can _hear you Sherlock," Mycroft said. "And maybe I would want a shorter life. I'm not sure if you noticed, but Andrea is dead." Mycroft heard a thump against the wood. It sounded as if Sherlock had smacked the door with a closed fist.

"Yes, dammit!" He said forcefully. "Andrea's dead, there isn't one part of me that wishes it weren't so. But Mycroft, you are twenty-eight years old. You cannot be hung up on this for the rest of your life."

"You wouldn't know!" Mycroft spat angrily at the door. Well, at the man behind the door. "You've never loved anyone."

"Besides the point," Sherlock said, and Mycroft could practically see him waving a slender hand through the air. "You have a four year old daughter who hasn't spoken ever since she saw her mother get shot in an alley right in front of her. You are NOT the only person suffering from this Mycroft. Now _get out of your goddamn room." _Mycroft was suddenly very energized. He jumped to his feet, and yanked open the door.

-MH-

Sherlock hadn't expected Mycroft to look this… bad. There were dark crescent moons under his bloodshot eyes, and his hair was disheveled. Everything about him was rumpled and…well, not Mycroft.

"You could have stopped it, you know," Mycroft said hoarsely. Sherlock nodded. He remembered figuring out that his brother's wife, an American CIA agent (a romance between the British government and an American spy could never have ended well) named Andrea, was a target for a rather radical group of some Middle East terrorist agency (why oh why did Americans have so many bloody enemies). Sherlock, being Sherlock, had figured out who the perpetrator was (it was actually one of his classmates at university) as well as where and when said perpetrator planned on striking (an alley at nine o'clock Saturday night, as Andrea and Bond left the theater. Sherlock had immediately phoned his brother, telling him that his wife and the mother of his young child was in danger, all the while racing through London towards the designated area of murder. But he had been too slow, _too damn slow, _and he had arrived in time to watch Andrea get shot in the head. Sherlock had immediately jumped on the assassin, and engaged in a very brutal fight until Mycroft and some DI named Lestrade had shown up to cuff him (and in Mycroft's case, weep over the dead woman's body). They had gone back to Mycroft's mansion, in this sort of numb haze.

"I know," Sherlock answered. "Despite what DI Lestrade says, I know."

"How is Bond?" Mycroft asked.

"Sleeping," Sherlock responded. Mycroft nodded, before stumbling away to the kitchen, probably for tea. Sherlock felt some part of him harden at that. Mycroft turned back to him, his eyes intense.

"Remember this Sherlock," he told him authoritatively. "Caring is _not _an advantage." Sherlock nodded as Mycroft walked away. He knew that, had always known that. But Sherlock also knew that he never wanted another life to end because of him again. He took out his phone. He needed to phone DI Lestrade, and see if there were other cases he could try to solve.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," Sherlock murmured to himself, punching in the numbers. "I rather like the sound of that."


End file.
